“You want me all the way undone.” Sara retrieved her braid from his hand. “This will have to do for now. Oh, dear…”
Beck had pulled her close again, and his erection arrowed up along her belly between them.
“I want you,” he murmured as his slid his hands down to cup her derriere. “This should not be surprising. You are lovely, sexually appealing, intelligent, and thank all the gods, naked in my arms.”
“You mentioned something about the bed, Beckman.” She tried for a convincing version of prim, but when she saw him stifle a smile, she knew he heard the hesitance in her voice.
“The bed with both of us in it.” Beck dropped his arms, seized her hand, and towed her the last few steps toward the bed. “Naked.”
“One can hardly forget that part.” Sara eyed the bed with sudden misgiving.
“In you go.” Beck patted her behind gently. “I’ll lock the sitting room door.”
Happy to get under the covers, despite the obvious appreciation in Beck’s eyes, Sara obligingly lifted the bedclothes and scooted across the mattress. Beck closed the bedroom door behind him and climbed in beside her with a complete lack of ceremony.
“Now what?” Sara had the covers up to her chin, and she was on Her Side of the Bed, staring at the ceiling. Beck came bouncing and rocking across the mattress, causing Sara to scoot farther toward the edge of the bed.
“Stop that.” He wrapped long arms around her waist and hauled her back to the middle. “I won’t bite, Sara, unless you want me to. And then I’ll kiss it better.”
“It’s just…” She paused while Beck rolled her to her side and wrapped his body around hers. “I’m not used to situations like this.”
“So it’s been a while.” Beck’s arm threaded under her neck, and he gathered her close. “You’ll recall the particulars, with a little reminding. Scoot a bit, if you please?”
He need not have bothered asking. With his size and complete lack of self-consciousness, Beck had arranged her in his arms and himself around her.
Mostly.
“You’re blushing.” His tone indicated he was pleased with himself.
“You are… your parts are intimately situated.”
“So enjoy them,” Beck suggested, rolling his hips to rub his cock against her sex. The angle was wrong for penetration—Sara could figure that much out—but intriguing for other purposes.
Sara wasn’t blushing, she was mortified as the great, thick length of him was snuggled right up against the parts of her body Sara rarely touched except to wash. Having the bulk of him between her legs brought an odd comfort, but it was disquieting, too. Impossible to ignore, like a beautiful picture hanging crookedly directly across the room from where one sat.
And yet, she did not want to leave that bed. She wanted to learn him, to become as familiar with his body as he was. She ran her hand over his flank, liking the curve of it, the way muscle and bone became a lean, elegant leg.
Sara’s fingers found a scar crossing the crest of Beck’s left hip.
“Riding accident as a child. There’s another one on my wrist, and a scar here”—he brought her hand to his collarbone—“where I broke a bone in another fall.”
“Little boys are so reckless. Men are no better.” Sara rubbed her thumb over the scar on his hip.
Beck slipped his hand around hers. “This man would very much like you to wax a bit reckless too.” He slid their combined hands down and positioned her fingers over his cock. “A lot reckless wouldn’t go amiss either.”
Tremaine surveyed the tally before him, knowing that even the sizable total on the last page was not an accurate figure when it came to the booty Reynard had sent back to England “for safekeeping.”
“There’s a bloody fortune here.”
The cat in his arms, Harriette, named for the famed courtesan whose behavior she emulated whenever allowed to roam free, purred audibly.
“I’ve cast my first lure but gotten no response.” He paused before a small painting for which anybody with a discerning eye would have paid a fortune. “A marmalade cat was a much better choice than you would have been.”
The cat in the figure made perfect graceful counterpoint to the nearly naked woman with whom it slept. “Black is trite, overdone, and probably not very interesting to paint.”
The beast leapt from his embrace, her back claws pushing away from Tremaine’s ribs with enough emphasis to make Tremaine grateful for both waistcoat and shirt. “Be that way. See who lets you cuddle up on his bed when I’m off to deal with Reynard’s womenfolk. Some of us appreciate the treasures that come our way.”
The cat, tail held high, strutted from the room, paying him no mind whatsoever.
Sara Hunt was driving Beck past the controlled, careful wooing he wanted to give her. His plan was not motivated by generosity but by the conviction that a more precipitous approach would fail.
And Sara would allow no second chances.
“Other men aren’t built like you, are they?” She’d shifted to her back and sent her hands running riot over his person and his… parts. She began to shape and stroke one part of him in particular, while Beck struggled to keep his breathing even.
“We all have pretty much the same accoutrements,” Beck managed, though it was an odd question for a widow. But then, some husbands were painfully modest—he certainly had been.
“Like a pony has the same parts as a horse,” Sara said. “When you’re like this”—she closed her fingers around his shaft—“it means you’re impassioned.”
Was that a question or an observation? When he was with her, it was an understatement in any case.
Beck let his hand wander over her shoulders and down to the slope of her breast. “Or it can mean I’ve awoken with a need to use the chamber pot.”
“Really?” She seemed intrigued. “How odd. What are you doing, Beckman?”
“Appreciating your parts, as you are appreciating mine,” he temporized, but he hadn’t even really touched her breast yet; he was merely scouting the territory. “I’ll stop if you prefer.”
“That’s…” Sara closed her eyes as his fingers grazed the soft flesh right under her nipple. “Not necessary.”
“Tell me.” He repeated the caress. “What exactly do you like, Sarabande? And how do you like it?”
She’d closed her eyes, and her hand had gone still on his cock. “I don’t understand the question.”
“Come here.” Before her eyes were open, Beck was lifting her above him and positioning her astride his lap. “Better. No, don’t start lecturing.”
“But I’m…” She crossed her hands over her breasts and turned her head so as not to meet his eyes.
“You’re modest.” Beck covered her hands with his. “With me, you should be proud, Sara. You’re beautiful, in the way only a woman can be, and I want to look at you and touch you until you feel as beautiful as you are.”
“Must you be so kind?”
“I’m being honest.” Perhaps Sara thought him both, for she allowed him to peel her hands away from her breasts and place them on his chest. Still, he sensed an awkwardness from her, as if perching upon a man’s aroused sex had not been in her marital vocabulary of intimacies.
Beck reached up to cup her nape and drew her down within kissing range. This hid her magnificent breasts from his view, of course, but it also let him get his mouth on her somewhere, thus avoiding the utter collapse of his sanity.
And this was better, Beck decided as he touched his lips to hers. Kissing let him spare them both the burden of speech and much of the burden of thought as well.
She sipped at his mouth then slipped her tongue along his lower lip, while Beck teased and coaxed and encouraged. When she grew a little bolder, he growled his approval and framed her face in his hands, the better to hold her still for his reciprocal invasion. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and the way they gripped at him suggested she was passing the point of mere comfort with their kissing.